


Slurring The Rhythms

by stereomer



Series: Mutant-verse [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer





	Slurring The Rhythms

Frank slams the door behind him with one well-placed kick. The walls shudder against both the force and the sound; a tiny plume of dust gets dislodged from the doorframe and rains down lazily. Frank doesn’t pay attention to this, as he’s already bent over and rummaging through the fridge, eventually emerging with a single slice of half-wrapped American cheese hanging from between his lips. He unclamps his teeth a tiny bit and then bites down again, letting the flavor seep through his mouth as he distractedly plucks at the pilling that’s fuzzing up the fingerholes in his gloves. This continues for about thirty seconds before it proves itself to be pointless. Even the gloves are pointless, seeing as how fingerless ones don’t really help with the whole not-leaving-evidence-while-robbing-peopl e thing.    
  
Everything is pointless, pretty much.    
  
A sudden wave of nausea passes over him, jolting in both its familiarity and unexpectedness. He closes his eyes against it, breathing shallowly as he struggles with the blood rush to his brain. He tries to ignore what it could mean – but no, that would be impossible. He had control over it.   
  
“Hey,” someone says from the couch.   
  
The cheese falls away and slaps against the grimy linoleum when Frank yells, “What the fuck!” He clumsily stumbles backward with feet that suddenly feel too big.    
  
“Relax,” the stranger says, sounding almost bored and yet inexplicably relieved. He just watches Frank panic and doesn’t move an inch except to hold his hands up briefly. “I’m not here to hurt you or rob you or do anything else stupid.”   
  
“Are you a cop?” Frank’s back has hit the counter on the far wall of the kitchen. Still, there’s only about an eight-foot space between them. He flits his gaze over the hems of the guy’s pants, pockets, waistband, jacket – anyplace where there might be a telltale lump of a weapon, but there’s nothing. His head starts pounding again.   
  
“Do I look like a cop?” the guy snorts. He smiles a little when Frank keeps staring. “No, I’m not a cop,” he states explicitly.   
  
“Then who are you?”   
  
“My name’s Bob.” Bob has dirty blond hair, some strands bleached lighter by the sun, and eyes that are almost too bright in proportion to how dimly the apartment is lit. Frank wouldn’t be surprised if Bob did have a weapon, one that’s too carefully hidden for even Frank to notice.   
  
“Okay,  _Bob_ .” Frank says the name exaggeratedly. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”   
  
Bob glances around. “Looks more like a shack. You should really start locking your front door.”   
  
Silence. “Small talk,” Bob explains.   
  
“Get to the point,” Frank says curtly.   
  
Bob exhales, long and slow. “Okay.” He locks eyes with Frank and says, simply, “I know your name is Frank. And I, uh, I heard you help people.” Then he just sits there without adding anything else.    
  
Frank blinks. “What?” he asks in disbelief, because he didn’t know people sat in strangers’ homes to asking something like this. His heart rate is already falling back to normal.   
  
“I heard you help people,” Bob repeats. He’s apparently the type of person who doesn’t use the word ‘help’ very often, because he stumbles over it and pushes it out of his mouth as quickly as possible.   
  
“You heard I help – you mean I steal from people?” Frank’s still wary, but he can’t help laughing. His hands have been clutching the edge of the counter behind him; he lets go and places his elbows on top instead. “Well yeah, I do. That’s all you’re here for? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not really looking for partners right now. The payoff is barely enough to support me, so I don’t know why you’d want a cut of it.”   
  
“No,” Bob cuts in. “No. I mean like, you help.  _People_ ,” he stresses, giving Frank a pointed look, obviously trying to communicate something else through his words.   
  
“What – ” Frank is confused again – he doesn’t know what he’s missing. It takes him a full five seconds to catch on, to piece together the nausea still plaguing his stomach and the sense of something about Bob being a tiny bit off, and then his smile turns grim as he balks at the realization that someone actually found him. He can’t even bring himself to feign ignorance. “Oh, no. Shit. That’s what you – no. You got that part wrong, man.”   
  
Bob doesn’t seem surprised at this denial. “You used to be big in the underground. I thought you did it out of the goodness of your heart.”   
  
“Sure, yeah. I got all warm and giddy just thinking about the laws I was breaking and what would happen to me if someone found me out. It put my soul at ease, looking over my shoulder all the time. You’re right.” The last traces of fear and suspicion are swept clean with this bend in conversation, now that he knows why Bob was really there. It takes Frank only a couple seconds to light a cigarette, and then he’s turning around to open a rotting cupboard door. He fumbles blindly with one hand until his fingers jostle the cool glass of a half-filled bottle.    
  
“So you’re one of them, huh?” Like Frank himself isn’t. “How the hell did you find me?” He takes a gulp without waiting for Bob’s answer. When Bob replies, Frank’s still facing the cupboard and he hopes Bob doesn’t see the way his shoulders seize up and his knees lock.   
  
“I knew Gerard,” Bob is saying quietly. The name wipes everything from Frank’s mind; for a moment, he’s just standing there, staring into the wall. His heart is beating, his lungs filling, but he’s blank. The backs of his ears become hot with liquor and memory, and it’s this sensation that brings him back.   
  
“Did you really, now,” he finally says in a hollow voice.   
  
“He was staying with me before he met you, but – ” Bob clears his throat “ – I didn’t hear about what happened until a couple weeks ago.”   
  
“Yeah?” Frank asks roughly, wiping his nose with his forearm out of habit more than anything else. He tightens his grip around the neck of the bottle, trying to curb the urge to smash it against the wall. “Did you hear they experimented on him? Kept him locked up in a cell somewhere and injected and extracted whatever the fuck they wanted? Did you hear that, too?”    
  
He throws the bottle cap into the sink, where it clinks against three of the sides before rattling to a stop. He’s not going to need it anymore at this point. Bob doesn’t answer – not because he doesn’t know what to say, Frank can tell as much. It’s a deliberate silence. The rational side of him appreciates this, for some reason.    
  
He inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth; he does this two times and finally faces the couch. “What’s your big fucking talent anyway.”   
  
A pause. Frank is expecting Bob to explain in words, but then Bob just silently holds a hand up, interrupting the small stream of sunlight that comes through the window. The light beams onto the carpet all the same, still whole and untouched by shadows.    
  
“Invisibility,” he says, before Frank’s mind has time to match this visual trigger with a word.    
  
“So you’re – fuck,” Frank mutters. Now that he’s seen it, he can’t believe he didn’t notice it before – the way Bob seems slightly less opaque than others, especially since he’s sitting in line of the sun. It almost filters through him in a way, but not quite. He shouldn’t even be seeing Bob at all, though, shouldn’t be seeing any of it – unless he’d somehow switched on.   
  
His head pounds, as if to confirm this. He takes another swig. His eyebrows come together instinctively as the liquid burns its way down his throat. He swallows hard and lifts his chin up. “You have control over it yet or what?”   
  
Bob’s eyes flicker toward the carpet and Frank follows his gaze automatically. They both watch as a silhouette forms, first fuzzy grey outlines and then darkening in from the edges, but it never quite gets there before blinking out, much faster than it had first appeared.    
  
“Show off,” says Frank.    
  
“That’s actually not supposed to happen. You can imagine why this is a problem for me.”   
  
“You know, you could’ve just said ‘no, I don’t have control over it’.”    
  
“I would’ve had to show you anyway, Frank.” It’s a little jarring to hear this guy, Bob, say his name like he didn’t just break in and they haven’t just been bargaining under the messy façade of interrogating each other.   
  
Frank downs the rest of his drink and carelessly tosses the bottle back into the cupboard. The alcohol is swimming in his veins by now, and it’s easier to make harsh decisions and just walk away. He tugs his hat out of his jacket pocket and jams it over his head. God, the sound of his fucking  _name_  – Frank hasn’t thought about him in months, and now he can almost smell him on the collar of his shirt, hear him calling from the bedroom, feel the warmth of his hands sliding around his waist.    
  
“Did you think that you could just barge in here and drop a name? Is that all you thought you needed to do to make me help you?” Frank has reached the door by now. The handle is cold against his palm. “Don’t fucking bother,” he sneers down at Bob with a viciousness that he doesn’t even feel. Mostly he wants to curl up somewhere and sleep for weeks.    
  
Bob is still looking impassively at the spot where the almost-shadow had faded away. He doesn’t reply. Frank doesn’t hang around for a response; he takes hard, angry steps and almost trips down the stairs without even bothering to close the door behind him.   
  


*

  


> “What’s going on?” Frank sounded raspy and frightened, even to his own ears. His hands were shaking, fingers curled up like fish-hooks. It must have been raining outside; he felt his clothes soaked onto his skin and his hair was clumped, tangled over his forehead. 
> 
> “Don’t be scared. We’re the ones that busted you out.” A hand touched his cheek and before Frank could see who it belonged to, the bright, concentrated beam of a flashlight was being aimed into his left eye, then his right. He squinted into it, imagining what the person saw – contracting pupils and roadmaps of capillaries, all covered in a layer of tears as Frank suddenly doubled up coughing. He struggled to speak.
> 
> “Hey, take it easy. Your body’s still adjusting to the mutation, it’s going to be hard.”
> 
> “Fuck,” Frank tried to say, but his lungs were still rattling mercilessly in his chest. He squirmed from side to side in frustration until the urge to hack up his insides began to subside.
> 
> “You’ve been seeing things, right? Hey.” The hand wrapped over his chin and held him still. “You’ve been seeing things?” 
> 
> “Yeah. Yeah,” Frank coughed out the last of it. The flashlight finally clicked off, but there were still bright spots dancing around in his vision. He tried to blink them away, but they only faded from red to green. 
> 
> “Cool.” The word was mixed in with a grin, and the hand slipped off Frank’s face as its owner sat back on their haunches. “So you see people for what they really are, huh?”
> 
> “That’s a fucking poetic way to put it,” croaked Frank. His eyes were finally adjusting; he saw a pale face looking back at him, mouth open as a loud laugh echoed around what looked like a sewage tunnel. “Who the hell are you?”
> 
> The mouth closed into a smile. It was strange, lying there in the dark, feeling gritty asphalt against his elbows and of course, the awful stink invading his head, but at the same time there were two rows of neat, white teeth being aimed towards him. “I’m Gerard, your savior for today.”  
> 

  


*

  
“I told you to take me off the list more than a year ago,” is the first thing Frank says as soon as he steps into the shop. The tiny brass bell that’s hooked to the upper frame of the door jingles piercingly.    
  
“What?” The reply is muffled, coming somewhere from the back, soundwaves blocked by mountains of boxes and junk. Frank makes his way further in, sidestepping between two dressers and shoving several broken digital clocks aside with his heels.    
  
“I told you to take me off that goddamn list.”    
  
Ray emerges from his office. “Frank,” he greets bemusedly.    
  
“I’m serious,” Frank pushes. He balls up his hands into fists within his pockets. “Someone showed up today. To my apartment.”   
  
“Someone…” Ray trails off but his eyes sharpen. He speaks jovially. “Oh well, jeez, if you wanted me to take you off the notification list for antique dressers, then you should have said so! Let’s go into the office.” He heads back from where he came, this time with Frank following. Ray shuts the flimsy door as Frank settles into a chair and watches Ray remove a painting from the wall adjacent to the door – he has no idea how Ray keeps track of which one it is, there’s so much shit tacked onto the walls – and exposes a naked electrical grid. Two fingers flip two switches; a red light at the bottom slowly comes to life as the shop lights flicker once.   
  
“Who was it?” Ray asks as he replaces the painting. “And I  _did_ take you off the list, right after you asked.”   
  
“Some guy named Bob.”   
  
“Bob,” Ray says heavily. He drags up a chair on the other side of the table. “What’d he look like?”   
  
“I don’t know.” The features flash against Frank’s memory as he lists them off. “Blond. Sort of thin looking. Blue eyes.” He leaves out the most telling fact, just in case a physical description is enough for Ray to identify the guy.   
  
“Blue eyes?” Ray repeats, obviously scanning through mental pictures of people he knew.    
  
“Yeah. Creepy blue. I thought he’d be visual like me, but it was invisibility.”   
  
“Haven’t seen him,” Ray concludes, pursing his lips at his own joke.    
  
Frank ignores it. He presses, “How come I could? See him, I mean. I’ve kept it switched off for a long time now and then he showed up and I could see him just like he was any other person, minus the obvious differences of being invisible and all.”   
  
“Hm.” Ray taps his fingers on the table in succession, ten quick little thumps. “Technically, you were seeing Bob and not his power. But that doesn’t really make sense. Maybe you were on without knowing it? I heard that it becomes instinct, somehow. Unconscious. Like, if a mutant’s around, you automatically know it. Sort of like a positive feedback thing.”   
  
“Maybe.” Ray might be right – Bob’s energy had been much weaker than most others. But still. Frank thought he had been successful in locking everything away into a tiny corner of his mind. He takes a deep breath and jiggles his knee back and forth. “He says – he says Gerard stayed with him before, you know.”   
  
Ray’s face is wiped clean of any expression. “Oh. Well. I got involved not long after they found you, so,” he says carefully.    
  
“Yeah, I know. I was just hoping.” Frank jiggles his knee some more.    
  
“Hoping I knew why he came to you?” Ray’s perceptive, but his problem is that he can’t keep it to himself. “You do know that the list doesn’t exist anymore, right?”   
  
“What are you talking about?” Frank stares at him.    
  
“I guess you’ve been off longer than I thought – yeah, there’s no more list. No more anything, actually. A few months after you left, the number of people who wanted off it was way bigger than people who were willing to stay. I don’t blame anyone. You know it got really bad, everyone disappearing all the time. So. No more list, no more connections. Everyone went their own way. It’s easier to watch out for your own ass and not someone else’s at the same time, right?”   
  
Frank tunes him out as soon as he’s explained enough. So there was no more underground. That would explain why there were so many more being captured nowadays. He thinks about all those people roaming around the city, trying to blend in and seem normal; he thinks about how many he would see if he chose to, or how many he has been seeing and just ignoring.   
  
“You think he’s gonna come back?” Ray is asking him. It takes a moment for Frank to return to the present. He shrugs.   
  
“I don’t know. I tried to scare him off, and then I sort of just left him there.”   
  
Ray raises his eyebrows. “At your place? Alone?”   
  
“It’s not like there’s anything to steal besides the TV. I don’t think he’s the kind of guy to try and drag my bed out the door.” Frank thinks, making sure there really wasn’t anything to steal. “There’s a piece of cheese on the ground, though,” he says out loud. “What a waste.”   
  
“ _Cheese_ ? Christ, Frank.” But Ray is giggling anyway and Frank finally cracks a smile, too. He likes Ray and his stupid pawnshop, and his natural tendency to make jokes; Ray, who laughs easily and really didn’t seem cut out for the job when they first met, but that’s all part of why he likes him, too.    
  
“Listen,” says Ray. “I’ll call Mikey, ask him if he knows anything.”   
  
“You guys still keep in touch?” Frank’s landline provider had canceled service years ago. Cell phones were too expensive and unnecessary. He thinks about Mikey and suddenly recalls clutching at his sleeve and crying into his shoulder. He’s sure they’ve seen each other since then, but that’s the last memory he remembers clearly. Ray had learned to stop bringing him up.   
  
“Yeah. You should meet up sometime. Outside of life-threatening situations, I mean. And so should we.”   
  
“Breakfast once a month isn’t enough for you?” Frank smiles vaguely.    
  
“Nah, never. Anyway, I’ll give Mikey your address, if that’s okay. You’re still at that place, right?” Frank nods, and Ray says, “You’re way too hard to keep track of, Frank. But yeah, I’ll tell him.”   
  
“That’d be good. You don’t have to, though.”   
  
“Maybe I won’t.” Ray gives him a wide smile before getting up and flicking the switches off. The red light fades away and the overhead lights flicker again. The painting goes back up, effectively hiding anything out of the ordinary.   
  
Frank knows he will.    
  


*

  


> “You can learn to control it,” Gerard said as they pushed their way up the sidewalk, seemingly against the rest of the crowd. 
> 
> Frank gave him a doubtful look. “Control it how?”
> 
> “Like, adjust the levels, or even turn it off. For short periods of time at first, and then longer when you get used to it. Of course, it’s not going to be useful if they manage to prick you and take a sample, but at least you won’t have random outbursts.”
> 
> “Why don’t people just turn it off forever?” The question seemed childish, now that it was out of his mouth.
> 
> “You don’t want to embrace that part of yourself, Frankie?” Gerard teased. “It’s hard to get good enough to be able to, but you’d be surprised at how many people actually do. I’m sure you see way more of us than I know about.”
> 
> “Maybe.” Frank let Gerard walk slightly ahead and examined the weird, slightly shimmering air surrounding his head and neck. He tried to imagine what it would be like, not to see Gerard like this. It made his eyes seem brighter, his smile cleaner than everyone else’s – Gerard was pale in a way that was the result of staying out of the sun rather than genetics, but his hair was almost black. Frank liked this contrast, this light and dark. 
> 
> He was still thinking about Gerard and how his pallor was misleading – he was healthy, and warm when he touched Frank, warm when he’d first opened his eyes and seen Gerard hovering over him – when Gerard turned around and smiled curiously over his shoulder. It was almost a surprised expression, like him saying, “I didn’t know you had it in you,” and appraising in the way he stared Frank straight in the eyes. 
> 
> “You might call that an invasion of privacy,” Frank finally said. 
> 
> “I told you. Only short periods of time at first.” But he was still smiling, and Frank knew he was one of those who could turn if off completely if he really wanted to.
> 
> “But I don’t really want to,” Gerard confirmed, falling back into step with Frank.
> 
> _Yeah?_ Frank thought, knowing he would be heard.  _Me neither._  
> 

  


*

  
Bob had closed the door as he left, apparently. Frank’s place is exactly as he’d left it, save for Bob’s imprint on the couch. He barely has time to unwind his scarf and throw it on the crate that serves as a coffeetable before someone knocks.    
  
Frank crosses the living room and peers through the peephole, taking in the convex view. It’s an old man, hunched over and frail-looking with silvery hairs wisping over the crown of his head and boat-shaped bifocals sitting on his nose.    
  
“It’s open,” Frank calls through the crack. He’s already walking back through the kitchen when the door opens and closes. The abandoned slice of cheese from earlier in the day gets tossed into the garbage.   
  
“Would it have been that much trouble to open the door for an old man, son?” comes a croaky voice, and Frank rolls his eyes as he lets the faucet run until the water fades from brown to less brown before putting a cup under the stream. He lets it fill halfway before holding it out and shutting the water off. The pipes groan in protest.   
  
“Here.”   
  
The man smiles toothily, an expression that’s way too sarcastic and youthful to match the face. It melts away, as do the rest of his features – skin roils back, teeth straighten out, limbs elongate, hair darkens and grows, and the years drop away disconcertingly quick until Mikey’s standing there, several inches taller but still with that smirk.    
  
“That’s more like it.” Frank shakes the cup just a little until Mikey takes it with a quiet thanks. “How’ve you been?”   
  
“Better than you, looks like. Your new place is a total shack.” Mikey raises his eyebrows as he takes a long sip, but he looks affectionate all the same.    
  
“Asshole.” Seeing him actually isn’t as bad as Frank had been expecting, but he takes in the sharp chin and deep-set eyes, looking for perhaps a bit too long because Mikey glances away.    
  
“So Bob was here, huh?” he asks, craning his head around as if Bob was still there and he didn’t know it.   
  
“Yeah. Yeah, you know him or what?”   
  
Mikey shrugs. “I saw him around, but we weren’t real close or anything. Nice enough guy, from what I knew. Doesn’t take shit from anybody. Gerard stayed with him after we got run out of our old place.”   
  
“I know,” Frank says quickly. Mikey turns his attention back and frowns.    
  
“Frank.”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
“Whatever.” Mikey gulps the rest of the water down and sets the empty cup on the counter. “It must have happened to him recently. He didn’t show signs of anything when I knew him.”   
  
“Why’d he come to me, though?”   
  
Mikey shrugs. His shoulders move easily under the thin jacket he has on. Frank has always marveled at the fact that Mikey, who was too skinny for his own good, with skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones for as long as Frank could remember – Mikey was the one who would transform. Mutations were funny that way.    
  
“Gerard probably talked to him about you. Maybe he figured he could trust you. What’d you say to him?” Mikey answers his own question before Frank has a chance to soften up what had happened. “Or no, I bet you basically told him to fuck off, right?” he asks dryly.    
  
“Not in so many words, but maybe.” Frank shrugs.    
  
“Give the guy a break. He actually made the effort to look for you, which, judging by the way you’ve been packing and moving these days, wasn’t that easy. If he’s just mutated, I’m sure his life is going to shit.” Mikey exhales exasperatedly. “I think I actually miss when everyone used to help each other. At least then we had a chance.”   
  
“You hated working with people,” Frank reminds him.   
  
“Which is why I was never signed up for that stupid list to coach newbies, but I liked doing other things.” Mikey sighs. “Anyway, I guess he figured it’d be easier if you were the one to help him, since you’d be able to see him no matter what. I never heard of anyone else with your power.”   
  
“I haven’t used it in awhile.” Frank thinks of Bob. “Consciously, anyway.”   
  
“Try now.”   
  
“What?” asks Frank, even though he heard just fine.   
  
“Try it now,” Mikey says again patiently. “Consciously, this time.”   
  
Frank doesn’t know why he wants to do as Mikey says, but it’s surprisingly easy to let his eyes slip out of focus and then sharpen them back, letting that distinct tickling feeling spread from the base of his skull – almost like someone had popped an egg yolk onto his brain. Gerard had once said it was almost akin to thermovision, or a warped version of it; something about mutated cells giving off a different type of energy that Frank was able to see.    
  
Frank’s heart jumps at the familiar sight, as everything about Mikey slowly starts coming to life, shifting and brightening until his facial features are almost swimming together, like he’s standing behind a shimmery curtain of heat. There are waterfalls running just under the surface of his arms, and his irises are never one color for more than a millisecond. Even the shape of his mouth changes in width, in curves, and in the angle of the bow on his upper lip, but only if Frank looks very closely. A million, billion, people right here in front of him, a steady stream of strangers that Frank has never known, and yet it’s just Mikey, standing in his ratty kitchen with shoes that look a size too big.   
  
“I’d forgotten,” Frank murmurs, reaching out to touch Mikey’s jaw. It’s solid under his fingers, but his vision belies the feeling. Now that he’s not suppressing it, he realizes he’d also forgotten about the heightened awareness that came with it – sounds are more acute, the smell from the water pipes is noticeable, and he can almost taste last night’s dinner.    
  
“I wonder how I look to you.” Mikey holds a hand up to his face and stares at his palm. “Pretty fucked up, probably.”   
  
Frank agrees, “Probably. Like you weren’t put together with the same glue as the rest of us.” He drops his arms to his sides and closes his eyes until the hypersensitivity seems to have been dampened out. He feels dull, unnatural. When he opens his eyes, Mikey is mostly Mikey again, and giving Frank a slightly softer version of his signature disdainful look.   
  
“It’s been over a year. I’m speaking as his brother when I tell you that you need to snap out of it.”   
  
Frank had known this was coming. “How did you do it?” he asks after a pause. It’s not meant to be a challenge, and he hopes Mikey doesn’t hear it as such.   
  
“I  _faced_ it. He would have – ” Mikey shakes his head, changes tack. “You, you drowned yourself in bottles and woke up every morning feeling like it was the same day. You never gave yourself time.”   
  
“Time,” Frank snorts. “I never would have pegged you for such a cheesy motherfucker, Mikey.”   
  
“Ha. Fuck off, Frank.” But Frank can tell that Mikey appreciates the attempt to break the moment. “Anyway, I better get going. I’ll come by more often, now that I know where you’re staying. And I’ll let you know more about Bob if I find something out,” Mikey adds before Frank can ask. He tucks his glasses into the inner pocket of his jacket, and then his torso becomes smoother, curvier, as do his legs. He’s gotten much faster at it.    
  
“Get a goddamn phone in here, would you? You never know if a guy might need to call. Or a girl,” he says over his shoulder, giving Frank a sly smile. He now has shoulder-length blonde hair that swings around when he turns and walks out the door.   
  
“You know it still freaks me out when you change  _genders_ like that,” Frank calls after him, but not too loudly.    
  
Mikey’s footsteps fade away. Frank leans against the sink and, on a slightly masochistic impulse, tries to remember Gerard’s voice, but it’s a memory that keeps sliding just out of reach.   
  


*

  


> “Do you know what they were going to do to me?” Frank had his hand pillowed underneath his head as he watched Gerard smoke right there in the bed. It was something he did all the time, and yet there was never any trace of ashes on the sheets. 
> 
> “Experiment, probably,” Gerard said shortly. “See what makes you tick. See what could stop making you tick. ‘Point deletions or insertions? Chromosomal translocations?’” He made his voice go up into falsetto, conveying a mocking sense of awe and interest. “It’s all DNA and mutations with them. It’s never people. And once they figured out what  _you_ could do, they’d probably make you identify everyone else, too,” he said bitterly.
> 
> “Guess I would have been useful to them, then,” Frank mused. None of this had happened, and so he felt detached from it somehow.
> 
> Gerard stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray, then rolled over, placing a hand low on Frank’s bare stomach, fingers in line with his hips. “Yeah, you would have”. 
> 
> “Do me a favor,” Frank said abruptly. Two weeks had passed and he was still thinking about Brendon; how the last thing Frank had seen of him was those big, surprised eyes before the van door had slid shut. “If it happens again, don’t come after me.”
> 
> “What?” Gerard’s brow crinkled. 
> 
> “I’m serious. Don’t come after me. I can understand what happened the first time – there were lots of you, and I was close by. But there’s fewer of us now, and if it happens again, I don’t want you to risk anything,” Frank told him steadily. He’d been practicing this since Brendon’s disappearance, looking into the mirror and keeping eye contact with his reflection. It had always ended with him laughing at himself for looking so stupid, or not even being able to finish what he was saying.
> 
> The hand on Frank’s stomach held absolutely still. And then, finally, “Fine,” Gerard said, and the word was only a little clipped. “Are you going to do the same for me?”
> 
> Frank had expected this. “If you want me to.” He understood that they were both lying or telling the truth – that this meant they’d either keep their promises or they wouldn’t. It would be the same decision for both of them, anyway. 
> 
> Gerard stared at him. The moment passed as soon as he moved his hand lower and tucked his face into Frank’s neck in a deliberate way, a distraction from the matter at hand. “Hey, mutants who sleep together,” he began in a casual whisper, pressing a smile into Frank’s skin –  _make pacts not to save each other?_
> 
> Frank closed his eyes. Gerard never finished his sentence.  
> 

  


*

  
Even though Frank finds himself thinking about it all the time – and maybe regretting things for half as long – Bob doesn’t try to make contact again for almost a month. When he does, it’s at the coffeeshop around the corner. Frank is trying to push his way to the island with all the lids and add-ons as the girl in front of him plucks out a stirring rod and proceeds to mix her coffee in slow circles before reaching for the sugar packets and pouring three in at a leisurely pace. It’s overcompensation – Frank can see the slightly blurred movements of her hands, the way her fingers seem to twitch with restraint. He hasn’t been able to keep the seeing to a minimum ever since Mikey had stopped by, as if the gate in his brain wouldn’t fully close anymore and was constantly trickling out a steady stream of awareness.   
  
“Hey, use your power for the sake of everyone waiting. What’s the point of superspeed if you’re going to be so fucking slow,” Frank says rudely. The girl looks up at him with worried eyes.   
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re – ”   
  
Frank waves her away and she hurries out with no hesitation. It was always sort of darkly amusing to scare people who’d turned themselves off. Maybe they thought Frank was one of them, the others, undercover in civilian clothes with a list of names and pictures in his pocket.    
  
“Gosh,” a voice says from behind him, and he doesn’t know how he recognizes it, but he does, immediately. “You really have a gift for social situations.”   
  
“You again, huh,” Frank mutters, digging through a small bin for some real sugar. His hand stills when fingers curl around his elbow and squeeze briefly.    
  
“I need you,” Bob says softly. “I need help. I don’t even – I can’t control it. Being outside like this is a huge fucking risk, because I keep blinking in and out.” He almost sounds desperate, far more anxious than when Frank had first met him.    
  
“Are you out right now?” Frank asks under his breath. He dumps in the sugar.   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Great, so I’m looking like that psycho on the street corner who talks to himself?”   
  
“Pretty much.”   
  
“Great,” Frank says again, lifting the coffee to his mouth and taking a sip that scalds the tip of his tongue. He glances around as he walks briskly out of the shop and back toward his place, knowing that Bob’s going to follow. Sure enough, there are footsteps keeping time with his, but his is the only shadow that stretches and bobs over the sidewalk. He tries to keep his eyes forward, occasionally squinting to his left and right to make sure the streets are clear before he – they – cross. It’s just as well, because there are several cops parked outside the complex. Frank quickens his pace just a tiny bit; neither of them speaks until Frank unlocks the door and they step inside.   
  
“Shit,” Bob finally breathes. His forehead is covered with a light sheen of sweat. Frank looks away and turns the deadbolt.    
  
“Maybe a hermitage would be better suited for you at this point,” he says a little more harshly than he meant to. Hell, he hadn’t even meant to sound that way at all. He pulls off his scarf as a distraction.   
  
“Listen,” Bob begins after a pause, like he doesn’t know how to react to these odd, spiteful remarks. “I thought you left at the same time everyone else disbanded. I didn’t know I was wrong until Mikey told me.”   
  
“You talked to Mikey?” Frank bustles around, putting his cup on the crate, taking off his jacket, picking the cup back up, and generally tries to look busy – his self-indulgent atonement for being an asshole.    
  
“Yeah. He said something about phones and how you didn’t have one.” Bob smiles vaguely as he sits on the couch. “Then he told me to come back. So now I’m back, asking you again without breaking into your place this time.”    
  
Frank can imagine Mikey saying this, probably after talking shit about him.  _He’s a stubborn fucker. Give him some time, but go back._   
  
“Why can’t he help you? What you can do is more on the same level as his – thing, not mine.” Frank doesn’t like the word ‘power’, and he doesn’t use it unless he can help it.   
  
“Because you’re the only one that can see me,” Bob says, as if it’s the simplest reason in the world. “God, do you have any idea how fucked up it is to not be visible? Even if someone can hear my voice – ” He stops talking abruptly.   
  
And it’s true, Frank can see him, which is still a problem – for him, anyway. He stands over Bob and concentrates on the top of his head until the individual strands of hair blend together and then he becomes more transparent, like a picture twice exposed, but Frank’s head starts to hurt before Bob actually disappears from his vision.    
  
“Fuck,” Frank murmurs, pressing the heel of his wrist against his right eye.    
  
“What?”   
  
Frank drains a quarter of his coffee, even though it’s still hot. “Can’t turn it off all the way anymore.” He slumps down at the opposite end of the couch and lets his head fall back until he’s gazing upside-down through the window and at the world outside.   
  
“I’m sorry?” Bob offers, and Frank snorts a little. They sit in silence until Bob sighs, “Hey.” Frank rolls his head to the side and sees Bob looking at him with that weirdly clear gaze. “Listen, no pressure. I just thought I could convince you. I’m not really the begging and pleading type, so.” He stands up. Frank doesn’t move, but he follows with his eyes.    
  
Bob continues: “I’ll ask Mikey if he knows anyone else.” He shakes his head with his lips twisted wryly. “Being a late bloomer really sucks. And I’m not trying to be passive-aggressive or anything, I’m just saying.”   
  
“Yeah,” Frank concedes. “Yeah, I can imagine.”    
  
There’s a pause, and then Bob says, “I’ll see you,” at the same time Frank says, “Hey.”   
  
Bob waits. If he had looked hopeful, then Frank would have just said, “Never mind,” but he only stands there in silence.   
  
Frank wipes his hand on his pants and looks away. “You can’t stress out about it. I knew people with sort of the same problem – this kid Brendon, he kept ashing through everything he touched, like a walking fireball, and – ”   
  
Bob’s gazing at him thoughtfully, paying attention like anyone else would, maybe even a little more, but he doesn’t know. He didn’t know Brendon, and he didn’t know how the kid had eventually managed to control it so finely that he could hold out his hands and it would be like ten individual candles, dancing along in lines.   
  
Frank breathes in. “So anyway, I think what they said was, you’re supposed to divide up your body into parts – like, your arm into ‘hand, forearm, upper arm’. Torso goes into three vertical sections, and then there’s your head and neck. Concentrate on each one separately, see if you get any closer. And drink lots of water.” He clears his throat. “Then come back in two weeks and we can see how you’re doing. I’ll try to get you new papers and stuff within the end of the next month.”   
  
Bob looks surprised – it’s an unexpectedly innocent expression that clashes with the set of his mouth and the smattering of blond hair over his jaw. He speaks slowly, as if to give Frank time to rescind the offer. “O-kay. Am I supposed to say thanks, or – ”   
  
“Don’t say thanks.” Frank laughs a little. “God no, don’t say thanks.”   
  
“Then I’ll see you,” Bob repeats. He opens the door and Frank thinks he catches a fleeting glimpse of a shadow on the carpet before Bob is gone.   
  


*

  


> “Basically it’s an underground group,” Gerard explained. “If people are targeted, then we get them new papers and identities, supply them with someone else’s blood just in case they get tested. If we’re lucky, we can ambush some of the vans that cart them away, but it doesn’t happen often.”
> 
> “Is it all people like us?”
> 
> “Nah. Got plenty of normies on our side.” Gerard grinned at the term. “They help with tons of things, provide places to stay and shit.” As if on cue, Ray, whom Frank had met a couple days ago, waved at them as he slipped inside.
> 
> “We move shop a lot,” Gerard added, kicking at an old printing press. The sound echoed around the warehouse.
> 
> “Or you could just get together and blast the entire Mutant Sciences center into the ground,” Frank suggested. He was half-joking.
> 
> Gerard smiled faintly. “Mutant politics is a complicated thing. And despite what you may have read or seen on TV, our powers are nowhere near perfect, and they have weapons, too.”
> 
> “Then why not just lay low?” 
> 
> “You could. Plenty of people do.” The smile grew bigger. “But what if we have to save the world someday? We gotta save ourselves first to do that.”  
> 

  


*

  
Frank is inking in a new passport, holding it under a free-standing magnifying lens and making painstaking corrections with a paring knife and bits of laminate. The front door opens and closes just as he’s putting the finishing touches on it.    
  
“You seem to be making a habit of doing that,” he says distractedly without looking up.    
  
“You would have started locking the door after the first time if it really got on your nerves.” Bob leans over Frank’s shoulder and examines his work. “Nice. Where’d you get it?”   
  
Frank smiles. He sits back in his chair so that he can open the center drawer of the desk. The wood paneling is covered with stacks upon stacks of identical blue booklets, all with matching insignias and the word “PASSPORT” stamped in gold lettering.   
  
“Jesus,” Bob says, obviously unable to hold it back. “You really do steal.”   
  
“Quick fingers. Why put them to waste?”   
  
“Oh, hey. Speaking of.” Bob holds his arms out and Frank watches as the abnormally elongated shadows of his fingers stretch over the carpet. It stops at the wrists though, and they just remain silhouettes of disembodied hands.   
  
“Nice. That’s a long way from only being able to make your fingernails appear,” Frank comments.    
  
“Fuck off,” Bob says. “I can hold it for much longer, too. Only up to my stomach though. Whole body, not so much.”    
  
Frank shrugs. “It gets easier.”   
  
“You’re such a good coach, you know. Encouraging and all that,” Bob says. “I like it.” He catches the passport when Frank wordlessly tosses it to him; Frank can hear him opening it and turning it rightside up. Bob reads out loud: “David Bergman.”   
  
“Papers,” Frank says in response, laying a crisp manila envelope on his shoulder without looking behind him. He holds it there briefly until Bob takes it. “Tax forms, DMV records, bank accounts, the works. Memorize all that you can. It’ll have to tide you over until we can make a trip to the bloodbank and get you some vials.”   
  
Bob doesn’t reply immediately. He only speaks when Frank cranes his neck to look at him. “So this is really happening,” he says in a weird tone of voice.    
  
Frank scrapes his chair back abruptly so that he can face Bob, who’s holding the packet and the passport in each hand with his arms slightly outstretched, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.    
  
“Yeah, it is,” Frank replies, maybe just a tiny bit more understandingly. “It’s not just learning how to control it. It’s learning how to be a completely different person. And even if you do learn how to control it, it’s never 100%, not like in the movies. You’ll probably blink out when you’re under pressure, or scared, or even when you’re angry or whatever. But you get used to it.”   
  
“You get used to rebuilding your life after almost thirty years?” Bob asks. “That’s optimistic.”   
  
“Hey, you have it easy. Two weeks after it happened to me, I almost got taken.”   
  
“But they saved you.”   
  
Frank thinks back to that night in the sewers. He could tell him about it. “There’s no more ‘they’ anymore,” he says instead. “You just have to depend on yourself.”   
  
“More words of wisdom from the misanthropic life coach,” Bob says wryly.   
  
Frank allows himself to smile crookedly. “You got it.”   
  
There are rustling noises as Bob unpins the envelope and withdraws the stack of papers halfway, thumbing through them in a cursory manner. Once he’s reached the end of the stack, he looks more closely at the first sheet.    
  
“’Warnings and precautions’,” he recites. He glances at Frank, who shrugs and says, “Hey, I’m not the author. Ray wrote it.” Frank had taken Bob to meet Ray a couple weeks ago – Bob had been greeted with excited handshakes and rambling about maybe starting a new chapter in the area. This speech had been greeted with raised eyebrows from Bob and a stupid urge to laugh on Frank’s part.    
  
“’Do not challenge authority under any means’,” Bob continues with a snort. He moves out of the way without looking up when Frank rises and walks into the kitchen. He listens to Bob read as he opens the fridge and leans against it with an outstretched hand, perusing its contents. “’Measure 8.13 outlines the circumstances under which police and/or other law enforcement working in conjunction with the Bureau of Mutant Sciences can place you under their custody. Addendum: Measure 8.14, passed last September, gives police and/or other law enforcement the power to use deadly force if necessary’.”   
  
There are no traces of amusement left in Bob’s voice. He reels off another paragraph quickly and more quietly, almost to himself. “’Try to blend in. Keep your powers in check at all times. Always be sure to carry extra thimbles of blood – provided to you by the underground – on your persons in case of random testing.’” He trails off at the end of the sentence, still staring down at the paper.   
  
“In other words, cops don’t need a reason to bring you in. A drop of blood can confirm your DNA; if you get targeted, it’s over,” Frank translates. He finally grabs a carton of orange juice and drinks straight out of it.    
  
Bob’s silent for a while. Then he clears his throat and says, “So. I guess this is a bad time to tell you that I got shoved into a line for an impromptu finger-pricking a couple days ago.” There’s a strange lilt to his voice, a fake sort of enthusiasm and humor, a strained layer of casualness, all at the same time –  _ha ha, listen to this, I just marked myself! Imagine that!_   
  
Frank has become motionless. So this is how it works, then: just when Frank signs his name to something, everything falls apart. There’s still some orange juice filling the shallow pits under his tongue. He swallows it down, feeling his throat work against the dryness that suddenly coats his mouth.    
  
“What – ” he sets the carton down on the counter and struggles to sound calm “ – the  _fuck_  were you doing outside.”   
  
Bob lets the stack of papers slide back into the envelope, and they hit the bottom crease with a thin noise. “I was practicing,” he mutters, “testing myself, whatever. Seeing if I could hold it out in just normal environments. Around,” he hesitates to rub a hand over his cheek, “around people.”   
  
“Unbelievable. Yeah, uh huh, and that was a good idea  _why_ ?” Frank snaps.   
  
“I don’t know!” Bob almost shouts. “Don’t give me a fucking lecture right now, Frank. Don’t tell me that when you first got like this, you didn’t try to do stupid shit like overextend your reach. But I guess there wouldn’t even be consequences for you, would there? Oh, you can suddenly see mutants and their powers, big fucking deal,” he spits. He throws the envelope and the passport onto the couch and clasps his hands together on top of his head. “ _Fuck_ .”   
  
“Why didn’t you blink out,” Frank says tightly. “You should have just let it go as soon as something seemed off – ”   
  
Bob barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s real smart, going invisible in front of all those people in white suits. I would have been surrounded in seconds. They had guns, infrared sensors – I don’t know, I figured this way would buy me more time, okay. Jesus.”    
  
He was right. Using his power right then would have been a death sentence, but Frank can’t bring himself to say so. Instead, he practically throws the orange juice back into the fridge and says, “You’re staying here from now on.”   
  
“Just because I asked you to help me, you’re my fucking keeper?”   
  
Frank slams the fridge door. Everything in the apartment rattles. “Yes, you fucking asked me to help you. You came to me more than once and had to  _convince_  me to help you, so do not pull this shit with me. I didn’t want to, but I decided to and now here we are, trying to fix things.” Fear and disappointment and guilt churls around in his stomach. It all comes out sounding like anger anyway. Mostly he’s just fucking scared.    
  
“Do you know how low the odds were that something like that was going to happen? Seriously, how many mutants wander around in public when they’re not ready and end up just fine? Don’t act like this was something I brought upon myself exclusively, okay. Yeah, maybe it was a stupid thing to do, but it was fucking chance and bad luck.” Bob snatches up his things and turns toward the door, blinking in and out like static.   
  
“Fuck, Bob, you need to,” but Frank cuts off when the door bangs shut.    
  


*

> _“A new law was passed today that requires all mutants to register and participate in a census. Employees of the BMS will also begin to conduct random DNA tests in public areas in order to ensure people’s safety. Tests will be noninvasive, and will consist of simply scraping the inside of one’s mouth with an instrument similar to a household toothpick. Bloodtests will also be set into motion, but with much less frequency. If one’s DNA is deemed too unstable, they will be taken into custody…”_
> 
> “Bullshit,” Mikey said. He shook his head without taking his eyes off the newscaster. “This is fucking bullshit.”
> 
> “It’s what happens when something gets out of hand. They try to squash it.” Gerard was also keeping his eyes glued to the screen. “There are way too many of us now and it’s scaring them.”
> 
> “’Custody’ just means ‘testing center’,” Mikey supplied. “We’re guinea pigs.”  
>  _  
> “Uprisings have already begun, but have not boded well for its participants. Mutant powers seem to be volatile and hard to control, which has resulted in much collateral damage to both sides. Modern technology gives law enforcement the capability to take on these foreign powers…”_
> 
> “What’s the point of being a freak if they have a new way to capture you for every single mutation in your genome?” Mikey asked the TV in disgust. 
> 
> “Haven’t they already been doing this for years? What the hell happened to me when I got snatched?” Frank asked. 
> 
> “There have always been some vigilante groups. Most were for selling you off to Mutant Sciences in the end. Now it’s legal, which means they can do it in broad daylight. You can be kicking and screaming and no one will lift a finger,” Gerard said absently.
> 
> Frank rested his cheek on the palm of his hand and continued to watch. 
> 
> _“Mutants first began appearing seven years ago, in what scientists now call Point One. The cause is still quite unclear, despite the amount of research that has been conducted. Mutations can occur at any age, at any time, and with no clear indication of what the resulting consequences are…”  
> _

  


*

  


Frank doesn’t hear from Bob for a couple days. He acts relaxed and mentally wishes him good riddance because that’s what happens when you get fucking overconfident, but he keeps glancing out the window or studying the people around him and the shadows connected to their feet.

Then on the third night, someone knocks. 

Frank opens the door and says, “Oh, Jesus.”

“No, it’s Bob.” Bob’s words sound wet, squelching. He attempts to grin. “That bad, huh?”

“What do you think?” Frank pulls Bob in by the arm, sticks his head outside to make sure the landing is deserted, then shuts the door and bolts it. He can immediately tell that Bob is visible right now – his arm is solid in Frank’s grip, and his eyes all the more blue. 

Bob is gingerly touching his mouth with his free hand. “I don’t know, I haven’t had a chance to look at it. It feels like a balloon.” He smiles again and it’s garish, sticky, teeth coated with a thick, candy-apple red. He sways a little.

Frank lets go of Bob’s arm and starts running his hands through his hair instead. “Do you have a concussion?” He’s barely skimming Bob’s scalp with his fingertips; he keeps searching until he encounters a sizeable bump near the crown of his head.

“Maybe,” Bob answers unnecessarily. 

“Concussion,” Frank confirms. “Lay down on the couch,” he says over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom.

He’s expecting some smart-ass comeback, but Bob obeys silently. The cupboard underneath the sink is almost woefully empty, save for some extra rolls of toilet paper and a few crusted over containers of cleaning supplies. He shoves them aside and finds a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, which he grabs along with the towel hanging by the sink before heading to the kitchen and filling a bowl with water.

“Where the hell did you go?”

“Stayed at Ray’s for awhile, then decided to get some stuff from my place. They were waiting for me. Fuckers,” Bob spits. “Hey, too bad I still bleed when I’m invisible, right?” He sounds way too happy considering the situation.

Frank kneels next to the couch. “So what, they ambushed you?” He soaks out the towel, twists a corner into a point, and carefully wipes around Bob’s mouth. “What the fuck did they hit you with, a baseball bat?”

“I blinked out as soon as I saw them. The one closest to me managed to kick me into a bookshelf, though. Blind luck. They were yelling, trying to taser me while I was fucking invisible. Retards.”

“And then you came straight here,” Frank supplies, and Bob nods. 

“After I told them I would kill all their children, yeah.”

“Christ, like that’s going to help the anti-mutant movement.” But Frank can’t help smiling. He leans closer and catches a slight tinge of metal in the air when he inhales. “Lean up and rinse.”

Bob lets Frank tip some water into his mouth. He winces, then lets a torrent of red water tumble out back into the bowl. “Fuck being a mutant, I really am Jesus. Water into blood.” He pushes his jaw out and experimentally tongues his molars, checking for loose teeth. 

“Is that how it happened in the Bible?” Frank asks, just to humor him. He sits back on his heels. “Seriously, your mouth – ”

Bob’s eyes are glazed over as he stares at some spot past Frank’s elbow. “Keep in mind that I can knock you out.”

Frank waits. 

“I was running out of there when some guy stepped in front of me at the last second. I tripped out the door, hit my face on the railing.”

Relief spills over Frank in waves; he runs his hand over his face to cover up any signs of it. He sort of wants to throttle Bob. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says with his hand still cupped over his mouth. His words are hot against his palm, dissipating into air and condensation.

“Hey,” Bob says loftily. “You were a real asshole last time.”

“Yeah?” Frank moves his hand off his mouth. “You too.”

Bob huffs out a laugh. “Not as much as you.”

“Not as much as me,” Frank agrees after a pause. “You’re right.” He stares at the smooth bends of Bob’s knees – they’re hanging off the couch, legs curled up onto the cushions – and tries to ignore the fact that Bob is studying him. When he finally looks, Bob has his eyes closed. 

“Hey.” Frank curls his fingers around Bob’s shoulder and shakes gently. “Don’t sleep, you’re not supposed to sleep if you have a concussion.”

“Shut up,” Bob tells him. Frank bites back several strings of curses that keep trying to fight their way out of his mouth. He quickly unclamps his grip both in response to Bob and in the realization that the last person with the ability to incite such turns in Frank’s mood had been Gerard. He’s not used to it anymore.

“This is really fucked up,” Bob comments after awhile. He speaks with his eyes still closed. “I know it’s permanent, but I keep waiting for it all to just go away.”

Frank bites at his thumb. “You’re visible right now,” he points out abruptly. 

“Huh.” Bob smiles a little. “I should have concussions all the time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Frank agrees, and he smiles too. They lapse into silence. Frank watches Bob’s chest move up and down with each breath as he wonders what he got himself into. There’s a familiar surge of purpose flowing through him now – ever since he met Bob, actually. He hasn’t felt it for a while; it keeps him wired, and even though it’s at least 3:00 in the morning, he’s focused and alert. 

“Why’d you stay here all these years?” Bob asks suddenly. 

Frank blinks. “What?”

“Why’d you stay here when you didn’t really have to anymore?”

“It would have been the same for me anywhere else,” Frank answers. And then it’s quiet again, for longer this time, but he stays there on the floor, shaking out his feet when they start to feel prickly.

Bob mumbles, “You still there?”

“Mm hm.”

“Good.”

“Jeez, you really must have hit your head pretty hard,” Frank says. He waits for Bob to retort with something like, “That’s right,” or “Yeah, I can’t appreciate your presence without physical injury,” but he never does.

*

  


> “He should have been here by now.” Frank walked up and down the length of Ray’s office, which was about four steps each way. Mikey looked slightly worried too, and Ray just kept glancing up at the clock as if willing the minutes to pass by more slowly. “It doesn’t take this long to get back.”

> Gerard had been scheduled to drop off this kid Chris Santos at the train station – an orphan after his parents were killed in a car crash. All he had to do was set the kid up with papers and send him away, out of the city to family located somewhere less populated and where there weren’t pictures of him scrolling through the nightly news bulletin of wanted mutants. 

> No one said anything. Frank clenched his jaw and kept walking. 

> “Just, wait for a few more minutes before we start panicking, okay?” Mikey asked. He was biting at his nails.

> They waited.  
> 

  


*

  


Frank is shrugging on a jacket to pick up some food when Mikey spills through the door as himself, with sallow cheeks and hooded eyes. 

“Mikey,” Frank says in surprise. He grips Mikey’s elbow for a second, but Mikey waves him off and just sits heavily on the couch.

“They’re everywhere today,” he coughs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Frank sits next to him as Bob emerges from the bathroom, freshly shaved. He stops at the sight of Mikey.

“Is he okay? What happened?” 

“He needs water.” 

“What?”

“Water, he needs water,” Frank repeats exasperatedly. “Mutant cells produce more energy than normal ones, so you need to keep loaded up on sugar and water. Mikey’s transformations suck him dry if he stays like that for too long. Throw me that,” he says, pointing. 

Bob grabs the candy bar off the top of the fridge and tosses it over to him. Frank rips back the foil and shoves it into Mikey’s mouth as Bob takes a cup from the dishwasher, holds it up to the light, and then fills it with water.

“Chew, dummy,” Frank instructs. Mikey manages to bubble out several insults through the chocolate, but he starts swallowing it down.

“Here,” Bob offers the cup as he sits on the edge of the couch on Mikey’s other side.

“You sure are more domestic than I remember you being,” Mikey murmurs. He takes the water and drinks deeply.

Frank watches him carefully. “What are you doing here?”

“Social call,” Mikey drawls, already sounding more clear and coherent. “Ray called me, said you called him about Bob. I’m here for moral support.” He takes another gulp and finishes the water as Bob shoots Frank a look and mutters, “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yeah, well,” Frank says a little roughly. “Payphone’s only a couple blocks away.”

Bob opens his mouth again but there’s a knock at the door. 

“Jesus Christ,” Frank says. He gets up and squints through the peephole before opening the door wide enough for Ray to be able to squeeze through. “It’s a regular fucking party now.”

“Yeah, and here’s the party favor.” Ray holds up a bulky looking thing that has a cord trailing out of the bottom. It’s dome shaped, like a ceiling lamp, and when Ray rests it on the table and plugs it in, it lights up just like one too, but then fades down until it’s humming out a faded sort of white glow. “Gotta let it charge,” he explains.

Mikey stares at the way it throws an almost unworldly shine over everything in the apartment. “I’m glad I don’t need to use it.” 

“What the hell is that?” Bob asks without looking away from it.

Frank shakes his head. “This isn’t what I meant when I said we needed help, Ray.”

“I know,” Ray cuts in. “But I figured it’s a good start. And you’re doing it too, Frank, it would be safer that way. Don’t say no again, you know it’ll help.”

“What is it?” Bob repeats, looking around at them. It’s Ray who finally answers his question. 

“It basically melts away your fingerprints,” he explains as mildly as he can. “Concentrated heat electrodes on the inside makes it possible to dissolve your prints without melting your skin directly onto the surface. It used to be regular protocol for people in danger.”

“And that’s supposed to be the reassuring version?” Bob splays his hands flat on his legs, squeezing once as if to anticipate the pain.

“Five seconds,” Ray dodges, “for each hand. You gotta keep them clamped down tight though, unless you want to do it twice.”

The question remains unspoken, although it’s understood by all of them:  _do I have to_? It would sound like too much of a whine; Frank knows this is why no one physically says the words. His own hand is itching now, and he digs his nails into his palm through the worn knitting of his gloves.

“Fuck,” Bob says. He holds his hands face up and examines them closely. Memorizing lines, the impossibly small indentations of skin that peak up into tents and come together in whorls, this part of him that he’s never going to get back. “Fuck,” he says again.

Frank tugs at each fingerhole of his glove and uses his teeth to remove it all the way. “Here,” he says, spitting it to the floor. He does the same for the other hand. “I’ll do it first.”

“No,” Bob says right away. “It’ll just – here.” He slides off the couch and kneels by the table. The light bleaches his face pale, almost translucent, highlighting the washed out pink of his lips as he inhales. 

“You got any frozen peas or something?” Ray asks uneasily. Frank walks to the freezer, finds an old ziplock bag of frozen water, and walks back to the couch. He sits down on it this time, his knee almost touching Bob’s shoulder. 

Bob exhales. “Okay,” he announces unnecessarily. “I just want to let you guys know that this is the most fucked up thing ever.”

“In a whole other scheme of fucked up things,” Mikey replies softly. He’s not looking at the other three gathered around like points in a triangle; instead, he’s gazing at the window and the darkness that peeks through the gap where the curtains overlap. 

Bob glances over at him as if to make another joke, but he turns back and, with another short breath, spreads his fingers in a vaguely spider-like gesture and lowers the pads of his fingertips onto the lit surface. There’s no sizzle or hiss or any noise at all, nothing to indicate the onset of pain, but Frank sees Bob immediately turn his face to the side, pressing his chin into his collarbone with a small grunt. When the muscles in the back of his neck tense up into stiff cords, Frank surprises himself by automatically settling a light grip against it, curving the line of his thumb and index finger over the shivers of Bob’s spine. 

“That’s five,” Ray says softly after a pause. Bob jerks his hand away, sagging back against the couch and breathing hard. Frank amends his hold to an open palm and settles it at the base of Bob’s skull. 

“Jesus, that stings,” Bob exhales, flexing his fingers experimentally. Frank wordlessly drops the bag of ice into his lap and Bob wraps his hand around it with a loud crinkling noise. 

“It’ll be over soon,” Frank says quietly. 

Bob is already putting his other hand down, almost before Frank is finished speaking. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip and hisses out air until Ray murmurs, “Okay,” and then the noise turns into a long, drawn out, “fucking  _shit_.”

The skin under Frank’s palm is clammy. He squeezes Bob’s neck gently, then slides down onto the carpet next to him and drags the contraption over. 

“What a world, huh?” Frank says. He rubs his thumbs against his respective index fingers one last time before pressing his hand against the dome without hesitation. Every single nerve in his body immediately starts firing crazed signals to his brain, spiking into the pain center until all he sees is pulsating red as he squeezes his eyes shut, unwilling to look at the seemingly innocuous sight in front of him. 

A cold grip wraps around his wrist and jerks it away. “That’s five, you maniac,” says Bob’s voice. Frank doesn’t answer; he just reaches out with his other hand and repeats the process, leaving his eyes closed and letting Bob pull him away again when the time’s up.

Bob has pushed the ice into Frank’s hands. When he finally opens his eyes, the light is deadened and gone, just a harmless memory, and Ray is coiling the cord like nothing happened. 

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes. 

“Desperate times,” Bob says. He’s turned pale, transparent.

“Oh, cool,” Ray breathes, pausing with the cord still hanging from his wrist. “So that’s what it looks like.”

Mikey’s staring too, but a little to the right of where Bob actually is sitting. “I’ve never actually seen it happen,” he says slowly. 

“Goddammit,” Bob sighs. 

Frank squeezes his knee, just once. “Not your fault. Your entire nervous system just got assaulted.”

Ray nods at Mikey. “You got it?”

Mikey wordlessly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out several vials of blood. “Valuable stuff,” he says, leaning over to let them clink onto the table one by one.

“How’d you afford this?” Frank asks, watching the miniature oceans of red tide up and down within the glass. 

“I was a bank manager for a day.”

Ray giggles. Bob raises his eyebrows and says, “Sneaky.” It’s only when Mikey jumps a little that Frank realizes the other two hear Bob as just a disembodied voice coming from nowhere. 

“Jeez,” Mikey says. “I never realized how creepy it was to not be able to assign a sound to a source. Ow,” he bites out, rubbing his leg. “Or a fist to a source.”

Bob materializes again, this time hovering over Mikey’s leg. And this is familiar to Frank, too – moving on, past the lists of captured people, past the laws, past the self-imposed mutilations, because really, there’s nothing else to be done. It is how it is, so he just cradles his hands in his lap and watches the rest of them.

*

  


> Gerard never showed up. Not that night, not the next day, not ever.  
> 

  


*

  
“Switch on,” Bob says one day, after they’ve finished their nightly dinner of take-out while standing up at the kitchen counter. He leans against it and looks at Frank expectantly.

“Why?”

“Just. I want to see what happens.”

“I don’t look any different, if that’s what you mean,” Frank dodges. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

It’s not that Frank’s reluctant to do it. It just feels – new, like he’s pulling himself up into something unknown by showing this to Bob. He only hesitates for a second though, and then once again it’s like someone has turned on the lights in his sensory system. Bob tilts his head slightly as he watches. 

Frank snorts. “Does that actually help you see things better or is it just a dramatic gesture?”

“It’s better to see how the angle of light hits,” Bob finishes his sentence by pointing to his eyes with his fingers in a ‘V’. A shadow falls across his face; something about the sight makes Frank want to remember it. “They change, a little.”

“What do you mean?”

“They get brighter, somehow. The colors are more defined and shit. I don’t know.” Bob shrugs to reiterate this.

“Wow,” Frank quips. “Stunning descriptions, seriously.”

“Ha ha.” 

Frank stacks up their empty paper plates and tosses them into the trash. He says, “You know, I thought you had the same power as me at first.”

“Why?” Bob sounds bemused. 

“Your eyes. They sort of look like how you described mine just now. It creeped me out, to be honest.”

“Do I look the same? I mean, now that you’ve switched on. Can you still see me?” 

“Yeah.” Bob still looks the same as ever, although Frank can tell he’s gone invisible. Standing there in the glow of the kitchen light, it looks like he’s been printed on film negatives. 

“Okay, but, uh. How do I look now?” And Bob starts to fade away even as Frank is watching him, as if someone’s slowly erasing him from corporeal existence; turning down the knobs almost all the way until all Frank sees are the barest outlines of facial features and limbs. 

He can’t stop himself from saying, “Whoa.”

“Right?”

“But – you were invisible and I could see you then,” Frank trails off, still trying to absorb what just happened.

“I don’t know. Maybe it has varying degrees?” Frank sees him look down at his own hands. “This feels all fucked up, like I’m not completely here.”

Frank can’t stop staring. “When the hell did this happen?”

“Couple days ago. I was getting out of bed and felt – not cold, but like, airy. I don’t – I figured I should wait it out before I came crying to you again.”

Something suddenly occurs to him. “I think. You might be getting another power. Can I – ” He reaches out slowly and takes Bob’s hand in his own, feeling the barest shimmer of solid yet pliable skin. He expects it to feel cool to the touch, but it’s not. Just, barely there. Bob’s eyes are still visible in two tiny, faded pinpricks of blue. “You look all weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like – like someone reserved a space for you in the world but filled it up with just a base or something. A foundation layer. Something.”

“Stunning descriptions, Frank.”

Frank makes a face. “But yeah, I think, maybe.” He pauses. “Are you going to freak out?”

“You would think that after all the shit that’s happened recently, I’d be used to it,” Bob muses. “I don’t know. Is it something bad?”

“It’s not bad, you just – you might be able to phase soon. Walk through walls and shit,” he clarifies when Bob just blinks at him.

“Wow,” is all Bob says in response. “Wow. Okay.”

“Sometimes it happens, especially if the powers are closely related. I mean, there are people who can blend in with their surroundings but they’re not  _invisible_ , so phasing isn’t a possibility for them. But I guess, you could.” 

He gives Bob’s wrist an experimental squeeze. It seems like Bob is staying quiet to mull this over, so it’s a surprise when he asks, “Were you ever caught? Tested. Whatever.”

The question throws Frank off for a second. He swallows down an itch in his throat. “Yeah. Mouth scraping test, once.”

“What happened?” 

“I switched out the sample.”

“With someone else’s?” Bob doesn’t sound disapproving or shocked or anything like that. Frank has noticed this – Bob calls him an asshole and tells him to fuck off all the time, but he never judges anything. It makes Frank fidgety anyway, like everything’s laid out and exposed for Bob to see.

“Yeah.” Frank finds himself justifying it. “It didn’t matter, whoever it was would have been cleared once people brought them in for more testing.”

“What about Gerard, did he – ” Bob stops talking as if he’d been expecting Frank to cut in. Frank just silently scrapes crumbs off the counter with the side of his palm, catching them with his other hand as they fall off the edge. 

“He did,” he finally says. “I guess that’s why when he went with that kid – it was stupid for him to go, but.”

“But it was Gerard,” Bob supplies. “I knew him, too.” He twists his mouth into a rueful smile. The past tense hasn’t made Frank flinch for a while, but this time it does make him think about what happened afterward.

“I tried to go after him.” The words tumble out easily. He never told anyone about it. 

“After you said you wouldn’t?” Bob asks shrewdly. Frank’s silence is enough of an answer. He watches Frank run his hand over the counter again, even though it’s already clean several times over, and says, “I would have come with.”

Frank laughs a little. “You say that now.” He dusts his hands off over the trash and raises his eyes to meet Bob’s; they crinkle at the edges as Bob smiles back. 

“Watch this,” Bob says, swiftly changing the subject as he grabs the bag full of garbage and heads towards the door. He goes invisible before he gets there and then leaves it open when he walks outside, presumably to the dumpster. It takes about a minute or two before he comes back, and a shadow materializes at his feet as soon as he steps into the apartment again. 

“Not bad, huh?” he says. 

“Besides the fact that I hope no one saw a bag just floating along by itself, not bad,” Frank repeats. “You’re almost ready to face the big, bad world on your own.” He imagines that maybe Bob won’t have to leave the city; they haven’t seen anything on news broadcasts yet, and with him gaining more control over his power everyday, it isn’t out of the question to wonder if he can hack it without getting caught. 

*

  


> They didn’t hear about it explicitly. Instead, it was Ray who picked up the newspaper on the way into his shop one morning. He flicked off the rubber band, spread the paper open in his hands, and saw the front-page article about Mutant Sciences and the accompanying picture. 

> Frank tossed the paper onto the table and stood up. “I don’t want anything to do with this anymore.”

> “Frank,” Ray began uncertainly. 

> “I’ll give you a call, but just, don’t.” And that was all he said before walking out. The picture stayed burned into his mind for days – a candid photograph of the insides of the lab, with doctors in their white coats, looking through microscopes and frowning at clipboards, guiding patients back to the beds that lined the walls; leaning over them and drawing vials of blood. Gerard’s face was turned away from the needle in his arm but toward the camera – his features were grainy, but it was him, it was him. 

> Frank wondered if it would have been better had he never seen it. If he was just left unaware for years. That night, he hid in the woods outside the small branch of Mutant Sciences that was set up a little ways outside the city, keeping watch of every single person that went in and out of the doors. He came back the next night, and the next, and the next, without ever seeing a glimpse of Gerard. He saw countless other people, though – he even thought he might’ve seen Brendon for a quick moment, but during the uncertainty that followed, he convinced himself that it was just the strain of his eyes playing tricks on him. 

> On the last night, a crazy impulse washed over him and he stumbled to the outskirts of the woods, planning on – he didn’t even know. Planning on marching in there and causing enough of a clusterfuck to give others time to escape. It was only when he saw the spotlights and the guards and the barbed wire and the heavy, steel doors that he stopped. He was only one guy, one mutant with a shitty, nonphysical power and would probably be killed within seconds. 

> He cried then, messily, smearing tears and snot onto his hands, because nothing felt quite as draining as hopelessness. He wished he could do more. He should have been able to do more.

> It was a long walk back to his apartment. He’d switched off by the next morning, determined to lock it away for good.  
> 

  


*

  
“Shit,” Frank curses flatly. 

Bob just curls his fingers over the back of the couch behind his head. “Hey look, I’m famous,” he says dully. 

The picture onscreen is a sullen shot of him, with his hair still short and a little tanner than he is now. Still, it’s unmistakably Bob, staring out from the screen amongst five other pictures of strangers. It had been bound to happen sooner rather than later, but Frank had been hoping that maybe, just this once, things wouldn’t spiral down as predicted. 

_“Once again, these mutants are considered to be extremely dangerous. If spotted, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.”_

“Extremely dangerous,” Bob repeats. “This,” he makes his hand disappear and waves it around, “this hocus pocus shit is dangerous, apparently.”

“Quit fucking around,” Frank snaps. The hand reappears. Bob looks at him. “I feel like I’m worrying about this more than you,” he mutters. 

“You are,” Bob affirms. “I’m not – unless you call it in yourself, I’m not going anywhere, Frank.” His hand has closed over Frank’s elbow, but the grip loosens up when he stops talking. The pictures are still up on the screen and the newscaster is spouting off more warnings.

“I can’t listen to this anymore. I’m going to sleep.” Bob gets up and heads into the bedroom. Frank had insisted he sleep there after the head injury had occurred; Frank himself had slept on the couch for a week before wordlessly climbing into bed beside Bob one night. Neither of them had said anything about it, and so it had continued. Sometimes they both woke up at the inner edges of their pillows. Sometimes there was enough space to fit two more people between them. It wasn’t calculated or awkward – it just was. 

Frank follows him, but not all the way. He leans against the doorframe instead. “You need to get out of here. Out of the city, at least.” His fingers twitch, only partly with the memory of pain. He feels like he should be preparing something, packing a fucking sack lunch or whatever. He curls his hands into fists and shoves them into his pockets instead. 

“I should just leave my life behind right this second?” Bob asks lightly. 

“Soon,” Frank amends. “You need to leave soon.”

Bob’s expression hardens. He walks up to Frank and crosses his arms. “You’re serious.”

“Yes,” Frank presses. 

“Okay, why? For all anyone will know, I’ll just have disappeared. Especially when I start phasing or whatever; they could walk right through me, which is really fucked up, but they won’t even know I’m there.”

“It’s not,” Frank rubs his forehead. “I told you. It’s never 100%. You could lose your hold on it at any time, even if you’ve had it reined in for years. That’s what happened to me – I was just like any other normal person until you showed up, and it turned on without me even knowing.”

He exhales. “And if they find you here, I can’t protect you. I won’t be able to.”

“Who said anything about protecting? If they find me here, you’re going to be fucked, too.”

“Fuck, Bob. Seriously. You said yourself, that you can’t stand having people not see you. Imagine living your entire life like that.” Frank shakes his head. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Bob shoots back. “ _You’d_  be able to see me, that’s why I came to you in the first place.”

“Yeah, me and only me.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“No, you’re  _not_ ,” Frank says incredulously, because, what the fuck. “You’re not, that’s why you’ve been working so goddamn hard to control it.”

“Fuck off, Frank, you don’t know what I want. Stop trying to control everything,” Bob grits out. 

He’s staring at Frank unblinkingly – that clear, lucid gaze that seems new every time Frank sees it. They’re standing so closely that it only takes a split second for him to hook one arm around the back of Bob’s neck and pull himself up onto the tips of his toes. Bob grabs the doorframe for balance against the added weight; he has his mouth open in surprise when Frank kisses him. Not hard, not hesitant, not passionate – just a kiss. It feels less tangible, almost, and the only other thought that occurs to Frank is that they fit together nicely. Bob hasn’t shaved in a few days, and stubble scrapes over Frank’s chin. The feeling fills him with a weird sort of sadness that makes him want to tighten his hold on Bob, but at the same time, he wants to shove away and walk out of the room without turning back.

As if Bob can read his mind, he immediately circles his arms around Frank’s waist even as Frank is pulling away. There’s a moment where they just look at each other, but then he says, “Let go of me,” in a thick voice and Bob does so. Frank pushes him off the rest of the way, but neither of them step back. 

“So,” Bob says in a conversational tone. He clears his throat and blinks rapidly.

“So,” Frank echoes. He wipes the side of his mouth with his wrist. He feels shaky, torn, but his motions are steady. “I still think you’re fucked. I still think you need to leave.”

“I know,” and inexplicably, Bob chooses this moment to smile, small and a little sadly. “I'm not. Let it go, Frank.”

Frank lets this sink in. The backs of his eyes feel hot all of a sudden, but he finds himself laughing at the same time, just helpless little giggles that push their way out from his chest. “God,” he says hoarsely. He shakes his head. “God, I don’t – I don’t even know.” 

Bob hasn’t moved at all. Frank can’t stop himself from fisting the hem of Bob’s shirt with both hands and leaning in to press his nose into the solid, reassuring curve of a collarbone. He breathes hot against it for a long time and closes his eyes when Bob rests one hand on his hip and the other between his shoulderblades.

“Are you okay,” Bob breathes softly, right above Frank’s ear. So softly that the punctuation at the end doesn’t even come through. 

“I think.” Frank shifts his fingers, feeling the fabric in his hands and Bob’s shirt soft against his cheek. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat resounds in his ears – he can’t tell who it belongs to. All at once, he's bone-tired, and warm, and. 

“I think,” he says again, “Maybe – ”

*

  


> _“I heard you help people.”  
> _

  


*

  
Frank’s fingers find the rough plaster wall of an abandoned drugstore. He leans on it for support as he closes his eyes and rubs his temple. 

“Headache again?” Bob asks quietly. Frank grunts in response. People walking by give them a wide berth. He feels Bob rest a hand on his shoulder. A few moments pass, and then he begins walking again, Bob’s hand still resting on him lightly. Tiny pinpricks of light sneak into his peripheral vision; it takes another couple blocks to realize that it happens in spurts, when someone is walking by. When  _mutants_  are walking by. 

“What the fuck,” Frank mumbles as they finally stumble into Ray’s store. The sunlight that tries to sneak in after them abruptly gets cut off as Bob shuts the door and rematerializes, leaning down a little to peer at Frank’s eyes. 

“What’s going on?” Bob asks, but the feeling is already fading now that they’ve stepped off the street. Frank shakes his head. 

“I don’t know.” But he still feels tense, wired all tight and building up energy without anything to dispense it. 

“I thought you said it was getting better.”

“It was. I guess not.”

Bob looks at him skeptically, but leads the way to the back. Ray’s already sitting at the table, perched on some weird looking chair that’s probably from half a century ago. 

“Hey guys,” he greets. “How’s it going?”

Frank feels Bob glance at him; he shakes his head slightly and Bob answers, “Fine. What’s this all about?”

They take a seat as Ray says, “Just, something I was hoping you’d be interested in. We should wait for Mikey.”

“You’re being quite secretive, Mr. Toro,” Frank states mysteriously. When Ray laughs, Frank takes advantage of the distraction to blink hard several times, trying to chase away the last of the headache. The door jingles faintly a few minutes later and Mikey walks into the office.

“Guys,” he nods. He plops into the last free chair.

“So, tell us what’s going on,” Bob prods. 

Mikey taps on the table with his index finger. “Okay. I found this kid. He calls himself Butcher. He can regenerate entire  _limbs_.”

“And?” Frank says, when Mikey lapses into a pause. The headache is starting up again, but it’s not really an ache this time, more like an erratic pulse. He frowns and tries to listen, but it’s hard to concentrate.

“And he knows some people. There’s even a superspeed kid, Hayley, who says she’s met you. Real activist types. Crazy motherfuckers.”

“And?” Bob this time.

“And. You know this guy.” Mikey points over his shoulder at Ray, who’s already moving toward the wall and pulling off the painting. “Said they could use this place for meet-ups.” He puts his feet up on the table and looks at Frank. “You still have all those stolen passports, right?”

The sound of his voice seems muted, as if they’re talking through a wall. Frank manages to say, “Yeah,” before he gives in to it and slips under the cloudy layer that’s obscuring his consciousness. He lays his hands flat on the table surface, registering the way it feels against the unnatural smoothness of his fingertips. When he breathes in, he notices that there’s a light, barely perceptible thrum coming up through the table legs – people in the sewers, maybe, running deep underground. There are people walking by the store; someone who can freeze, someone who can stretch, someone who can divide up. Each one makes a tiny imprint in his senses, and with a sudden clarity, he realizes he can almost  _see_ them as half-formed images flit across his mind. Like there’s a map in his head, and he can pinpoint each and every mutant if only he could just push a little more – 

He opens his eyes and tries to recover from the rush. “Fuck,” he breathes. Bob’s watching him carefully, leaning in with an arm slightly outstretched but letting him work it out on his own. Frank’s hands slip into his lap, leaving trails of condensation in their wake. Mikey looks at him with pursed lips, as if he already knows what’s happening. 

“Frank?” Ray asks over his shoulder. “You okay?”

Is he okay – is he? It’s not hurting anymore. He feels something new; can practically see nucleotide bridges breaking apart and reforming, coils upon coils unwinding into different shapes. Frank presses a palm to his forehead, trying to bring back the fading images of dozens of people and smiling in disbelief. “Guys. I think I might be starting to – ”

“Wait,” Ray says, and he flips the switches, one, two.


End file.
